


for luck

by apocryphic



Series: a hundred simple ways [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Car Chases, Flirting, M/M, Post-Recall, Pre-Relationship, Questionable uses of a gun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 06:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11709021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphic/pseuds/apocryphic
Summary: Of course he remembers the touch of cool steel against his lips, and he knows that the side of a revolver can't feel anything like the wrong end of a blade, but it's suresomething, isn't it.





	for luck

**Author's Note:**

> gun kisses amirite? shout out to terry for the car and also half of the series name. i listened to [0:59 by danger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2jU4TpCZxBc) pretty much exclusively while writing this, to the point where i forgot it was playing. i almost named it after the song but it wouldn't have made sense :( 
> 
> ALSO, if you're bothered by details of damage to cars/car accidents, don't read the portion of the fic between the two horizontal lines. nothing is entirely explicit but as genji says somewhere in these 2000something words, better safe than sorry.

The car that they steal is sleek, entirely smooth lines and sporting unblemished, polished-bright teal paint. It sticks out like a sore thumb in the sea of neutrals and it's not what McCree would have picked, but it was Genji's choice out of everything within easy grabbing distance on the top level of the parking deck.

("This one," Genji'd said, the second the car had pulled into a spot.

McCree, standing next to him, had been too busy punching their coordinates into a message for the rest of the team to bother trying to talk him out of it. Also, he had known that he wouldn't have been able to talk him out of it.

They'd tagged the lone driver of the vehicle with a short-range tracker during the elevator ride down to the conference lobby and the rest was history.)

The engine purrs as Genji eases down on the gas pedal just a teensy bit more. Genji looks like he might want to purr along with it. His helmet is stashed in the bag down by McCree's feet; with nothing in the way, McCree's privy to the sight of his content smile. The street lamps they pass under send the metal along his jaw gleaming for a split second before everything returns to shadow, only the gentle glow of the dashboard remaining.

"Winston told _me_ to tell _you_ he's real disappointed we stole a car," McCree says after he's looked his fill. He puts the communicator on the dash and squirms out of his suit jacket.

"We're borrowing it," Genji corrects lightly. "I took care of the security system and disabled the GPS. There's no danger of compromising the mission."

"And what a stroke of luck it is for us that the car's owner's all closed up in that bathroom, sick as a dog," McCree muses, as if he hadn't been the one to knock the man out, lock the door, and steal his keys before handing them off to Genji in an enthusiastic handshake.

Genji nods like he wholeheartedly believes in McCree's innocence. "Luck indeed."

McCree tosses the suit jacket onto the floor, on top of their bag, and then sets out to pull his hair down out of its low ponytail. "Think they've noticed they're gettin' tailed yet?"

Genji hums, sliding his thumbs idly over the steering wheel, the movement drawing McCree's eye. "Not yet."

In front of them, the black sedan they're following stops at a red light. Genji brakes slowly, easing them to a stop when they come up behind them.

Talon's got a long list of independent contractors; this is only the first the new Overwatch has set out for on a mission. The objective is simple: grab the guys, get their information, and get out. The execution is a little trickier though; they couldn't do something as simple as sticking a tracking device on the car without knowing what Sombra's got up her sleeve and if she's been generous enough to share anything with Talon's buddies.

So, they're doing things _old-fashioned_. Or at least, in a way that McCree and Genji could handle a tad bit better than the rest of the crew.

"Eh." McCree starts trying to peel his black gloves off; the right comes away easy enough, but the left keeps catching on the metal ridges. He grumbles. "Only a matter of time, anyway."

"They will have to realize sooner or later." Genji looks at him. Pauses. Then adds, "Let me."

McCree glances up. It takes a second to click, and then he offers the offending hand and glove for Genji. The car idles and McCree checks the light — like it's not casting an obvious enough red tint over them — as Genji reaches over and takes him by the wrist and tugs at the glove one fingertip after another, bit by bit pulling it away, until he leaves McCree's hand free once more.

"There," Genji says kindly, silent laughter in his eyes at the expression of raised brows and pressed-together lips that McCree gives him. Genji pushes the glove back against his palm, closing McCree's own fingers around it.

The red tinge around them changes to green. They both look at the light. Genji lets go of his wrist to drive, and McCree takes a breath.

"In any case, we can only hope they lead us somewhere useful," Genji goes on, either not noticing or not mentioning that McCree's using the glove in his hand as a stress ball.

McCree gives a noncommittal grunt and tosses the gloves down, finally rolling his sleeves up. "What're the odds of them pulling over and letting us work through it peacefully?"

Genji scoffs. "Nonexistent. And even then, you would still complain about not getting a proper shootout." He stops at an empty four-way stop longer than strictly necessary before making the same turn after their target.

"Only 'cause I've been forced into fancy trousers for this whole ordeal." McCree hitches his shoulders up. "I feel like I deserve something a little more up my alley."

"But it has made things easier," Genji points out, peering over at aforementioned trousers.

And he's right. It has. Overwatch has to be careful right now, in this in-between period before announcing to the world they're active once more. They're not ready for anything more than this right now.

(It doesn't mean McCree has to like wearing _trousers,_ though.)

"Well, what about you?" McCree asks. "You don't seem to mind the whole dress-up gig."

"Not at all." Genji sounds entertained. "I like it more now than I once would have, I think. Not that I was ever allowed the chance to enjoy it in the past." Genji moves a palm smoothly along the steering wheel, around the perimeter of it, and makes a thoughtful sound. "And it has its perks."

McCree glances from Genji's neatly styled hair down to the strong cut of his shoulders, the ring of light around the vents even unable to show through from underneath the thick material of his own suit jacket. Genji's eyes shine despite the shadows over his face as he flicks his attention over to McCree in turn.

Privately, McCree thinks there's only one real perk of running this op (if it can even be called that, seeing as how Overwatch's functioning these days) and he's sure, too, that Genji has a similar view.

"Yeah," he says. "It does."

In front of them, the black sedan stops in the left-turn lane at another intersection. Other cars idle past. In the night, all the lights look like they're dripping off the sides of vehicles, everything cast in white and red and yellow.

When the turn arrow goes on, the sedan does a snappy u-turn instead of going down the other street.

McCree looks at Genji.

"If we end up getting caught, we're gonna be in some trouble," he says. It does nothing to erase Genji's delight as he follows the same path, swinging the car around and giving a pleased sound at the handling.

"We won't get in trouble," says Genji, surety ringing in the words.

"Because we won't get caught?" McCree guesses dryly. He pops open the glove box to retrieve Peacekeeper from where he'd stashed the gun when they first got into the car.

"Of course." Genji slowly accelerates as the sedan starts picking up more speed down the straightaway. "Don't you trust me?"

The reply throws him off, but it's not the words that leave him sideways — it's all in the tone, the teasing note turning the edges of each syllable that much higher. McCree realizes, not for the first time, that he's thinking of Genji all wrong. This isn't Blackwatch, he's reminded; their interactions don't play by the same rules anymore.

He looks and finds Genji's eyes dancing from him to the rearview mirror and back to the road again, the beginnings of a smirk on his lips like he takes a small amount of mirth in the time it takes for him to come up with a suitable answer.

McCree huffs a strange frustration and a stranger amusement at himself and everything else, but sounds no less certain when he replies. "I trust you. Cross my heart."

It's nothing different than what might've been said years before, but it's still all in the tone.

There's a burst of honks and McCree looks away in time to watch as the sedan jerks into the other lane and weaves between the handful of cars on the street. Everyone else on the road slams their brakes, lights flashing in warning while the sedan rushes wildly past, and McCree whistles sharply as Genji gives chase and is nearly sideswiped for his efforts.

"What was that about them leading us somewhere useful?" McCree wonders aloud, swinging open Peacekeeper's cylinder to count each bullet he has.

Genji's laugh is quiet compared to the steadily increasing drone of the engine, raising in volume the closer the edge towards the sedan. They've got enough in the way of speed to catch up, there's no question, but there's still innocent people simply trying to get out of the way. McCree knows neither of them are interested in collateral damage.

McCree clicks Peacekeeper's cylinder shut and takes his seatbelt off.

"Lead 'em down the next right turn," he says. "GPS said earlier it's under construction a ways down."

"So it should be empty."

McCree puffs out a short sigh and dares to hope, rolling down the window. "Should be."

Genji pulls up onto the left side of the sedan with a precise flick of the wheel, gradually overtaking the the sedan with ease. As soon as his window's rolled down all the way, it steals the air right out of McCree's lungs, makes him work for every breath, and he bitterly wishes he'd kept his hair tied back.

They're inching past the sedan, nearly at the turn, when the other car's tinted-dark window comes down just enough for the barrel of a gun to show.

McCree shoves himself into his seat as far as he can, leaning over hard to force Genji back with his arm in the same motion. The first bullet goes through the driver's side window, glass sprinkling down into Genji's lap; the second presumably ends up in McCree's right shoulder judging by the intimately familiar rush of heat. Genji doesn't flinch, swinging their (stolen, and now damaged) car in front of the sedan in the split second before the intersection, forcing the sedan into taking the turn.

"Where?" Genji says instantly over the noise of the wind.

"Shoulder." McCree swears as he straightens up into his seat again, pulling his arm away from Genji's chest. He even manages a light-hearted compliment despite his irritation at being shot, though there's still something sharp to be found in the remark — "Fancy driving."

Genji's reply is almost casual enough to fool him. "I used to street race sometimes."

McCree makes a noise somewhere between _oh_ and _huh_ as he switches Peacekeeper over to the other hand, feeling his heartbeat in the deepest part of his shoulder and like maybe he should offer something in return. "I did a little racing. With bikes, though."

Genji glances over. "We should have stolen a motorcycle, then."  

He thinks about Genji being pressed up behind him as they speed down the streets, and then stops thinking about that altogether and instead makes sure the doors are locked. "This is probably better suited," he admits, a little too slowly.

Another bullet hits the hood of their car, and then another shot knocks the outside mirror off from McCree's side, sending it clattering along the asphalt behind them. McCree bites down on the pain singing through his shoulder as he hooks his seatbelt around his arm.  

Genji steals a glance before lining them up nicely behind the sedan as the lanes tick down from four to two and then to only one way up ahead, blocked in on either side by temporary walls put down to funnel traffic through the construction area. The street's empty outside of their gaudy, unmistakable car and the sedan. There's no better opportunity.

McCree starts easing out of his seat, keeping his head down.

"Wait —"

McCree stops with a question ready, turns his head and watches in unmoving, baffled silence as Genji grasps his wrist for the second time. He leans across the console, pulling McCree in with him, only to press his lips to Peacekeeper's barrel.

The words slip from McCree, left unspoken, as he goes still. The sound of the car engine and roar of the wind and the aching hot pain in his shoulder all cut out for a heartbeat. He feels like maybe it's some sort of backwards tease, a strange mockery, some high-stakes way of saying _remember?_

(Of course he remembers the touch of cool steel against his lips, and he knows that the side of a revolver can't feel anything like the wrong end of a blade, but it's sure _something_ , isn't it.)

Genji pulls away, his eyes on the road again, a sly smile coloring his expression satisfied. "For luck," he says. Like that's all there is to it.

"Yeah, okay." McCree tries and fails not to sound breathless. He tears his gaze away, forward, onward, as he leans out of the car, ignoring the warmth that has nothing to do with the blood slowly soaking his shirt. "Ain't ever made a shot just on luck before," he says, getting his right side out of the window.

"For you, then," Genji tells him.

The wind nearly grasps the words right out of hearing range. There's something he could say — there's always something to say, but this time something he might _want_ to say — but all too soon there's two men following his lead in the sedan, windows rolled down and guns pointed back towards them.

McCree pushes the rest of the way out of the car, grits his teeth past the pain, and lets the world fall still.

He pulls the trigger four times.

 

* * *

 

 

The aftermath consists of a black sedan wedged between the construction walls, all four tires blown out by what appears to be bullet holes, and a stolen teal sports car with similar damage, front windshield completely shattered, parked to the side. Its keys are found left on the driver's seat.

Inside of the sedan, police discover three men, zip-tied together and knocked out. (Upon further digging, and released in a report much later on, they are all found to bear some connection to the terrorist organization known as Talon.)

The passenger seat of the teal sports car is missing entirely, and appears to have been ripped or even cut from the vehicle.

The sports car's owner is identified and eventually discovered unconscious in a locked bathroom of a nearby conference of decent political interest, hosted by large corporation. When interviewed, he claims he has no idea what happened, but that the shrimp at the buffet table tasted funny and could that have possibly made him sick enough to feel as if he was asphyxiating and also could he sue, was suing an option?

 

* * *

 

 

Genji dumps the passenger seat of the sports car onto the ground when they reach a safe distance, all of McCree's blood smeared on the top right corner of the seat already dry.

"I don't think I'd show up in any records," McCree says, pressing gauze against his bullet wound, his sleeve torn off at the shoulder. "Don't think anybody's got my DNA on file. Except — well. Guess all that was leaked anyway. Doesn't matter."

"Better safe than sorry," Genji says, and kicks the seat lightly for good measure.

McCree heaves a long sigh and puts their duffel bag on the ground before he lowers himself beside it. The night is coming to an close, the sky slowly growing lighter, but there's a street lamp still shining down over them. Genji sits next to him, their knees brushing together as he settles, then digging through the bag to hand McCree more gauze.

"Your face," he clarifies. "It's still bleeding."

McCree thinks _oh, right,_ and reaches up to touch the stinging cut along his cheek with his right hand. He regrets it immediately, his shoulder protesting at being moved at all.

For the second time that night, Genji says, "Let me."

So he does; McCree passes the gauze over again and, after cleaning where glass had sliced his cheek open, Genji presses one of the smaller gauze pads over the wound. The biotics infused in it cool the skin underneath, and McCree relaxes in increments.

"It's surprising you were not hurt worse," Genji comments as he waits for the gauze to stick. "What with our windshield being broken."

"Nah." McCree turns his face just a little more into Genji's hand. "I had a li'l extra luck."

It's not entirely true; there's a scattered few places stinging on his arm, but for the most part he is far more untouched than he should be, considering everything. Still, it gets a playful smile out of Genji, and McCree feels triumphant if only for that.

They send out the all clear message over the communicator along with all the information stolen from the targets' phones, wiring it right to Winston and Athena.

McCree leans, pressing his uninjured shoulder against Genji's, and Genji leans back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> anyways welcome to the series i have informally dubbed Emotional Purgatory, where i never let them Actually Kiss (does this addition even fit well with the first part i can't tell anymore)


End file.
